Not Thinking of Death Read online

  ‘Most British, apparently. But one’s heard there are chaps of just about all nationalities on both sides. Germans fighting Germans here and there, and so forth.’ He added, ‘Any case, the fascists are going to win. They’ve got the fire-power, you see. And they’re tightening the noose around Madrid week by week. It’s really only the eastern part of the country that’s held by so-called Loyalists now.’

  ‘And the south. Some of the ports down there, anyway. Why d’you say “so-called” Loyalists, though? That’s the government side, after all.’

  ‘Certainly. And hand-in-glove with the Russians, aren’t they? May have been elected, but they’ve already sold out to Moscow. If they won, Spain would be communist and under Moscow’s rule. Even as it is they’ve got Russian commanders and generals – eh?’

  ‘While the other lot have God knows how many Germans and Italians fighting for them. German tanks and guns – bombers and fighters too. What about that?’ Suzie challenged him: ‘What about Guernica, for that matter?’

  A few months earlier, the Basque town of Guernica had been flattened, reduced to rubble allegedly by German dive-bombers – a new variety, Junkers 87s, which for some reason were being called ‘Stukas’. There’d been world-wide condemnation of the slaughter and destruction, and as a direct result of it a lot more foreign volunteers had gone to join the Loyalists. It might well have been what started Guy’s mind working in that direction, Chalk had guessed.

  ‘Interesting point there, Suzie.’ Alastair put a hand on her shoulder. ‘We’ve heard quite recently that that was pure invention. The Germans did attack the place – it’s a rail centre, or was – but then the Republicans moved in with explosives and did the rest. Terrific propaganda coup, d’you see. They used Asturian miners – chaps who know all about dynamite. And before this they’d done the same to Irun – or so I’m told.’

  ‘You’re told.’ Suzie nodded. ‘Question is, who by?’

  ‘By more than one first-hand report from Spain. Primarily an Englishman who was in the town soon after the event. For the moment I forget his name – but the way he described it was quite convincing. To me, anyway.’ Alastair shrugged. ‘Suzie, I’m not saying the Germans are whiter than white—’

  ‘Glad to hear that.’ Dymock, joining them, smiled at her. ‘Sorry – got trapped.’

  ‘By our father which art in his smoking-room?’

  ‘That’s not a bad guess. You were going to take me to see some pasture that might do for a landing-field?’

  ‘So I was.’ She glanced at Chalk. ‘More to the point to take Rufus though, now I’ve found him. It’s his fiancée who’ll be using it, after all… Pony-paddock behind the house here, Rufus. We’ve got hay on it at the moment, but it’s about ready to cut and I imagine all we’d need to do after that is fill in a few holes here and there. Any idea how long a run she’ll need?’

  ‘Not off-hand. I’ll ask her, and let you know. Let’s go and see it, anyway.’

  Dymock suggested, ‘Then tennis, Suzie?’

  She looked round at the others. ‘Foursome? Alastair?’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to partner you.’ He told Chalk, ‘She poaches – continually.’

  ‘I can handle that.’ Dymock gave her one of his smiles. ‘You and I’ll take these two on, Suzie, shall we?’

  ‘If you like. But I warn you, I do poach.’ She took Chalk’s hand, pulled him after her. ‘Out through the back’s the quick way.’

  One in the eye for bloody Dymock, he’d thought, as they left the house. Then, passing through the stable-yard, he caught himself up on that, realizing that he’d reacted as if he were Dymock’s rival! (And little guessing that in something more than fifty years’ time he’d be reminded of this momentary aberration by the question ‘Might you by this time have developed a soft spot for her?’)

  Bloody interrogation… But the question had struck home, even stimulated a continuing process of recollection. Of Suzie for instance on their way to look at this paddock, asking him – again – which weekend it was that Diana was hoping to fly up.

  ‘Bringing Guy with her on the 30th. She’ll fly back next day – she’s a working girl, you know. Actually she has a new prospect in the offing – instead of freelancing, a regular job in air-survey work, map-making.’

  ‘Hope she gets it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  ‘D’you think she’d take me up – in her Fox Moth?’

  ‘Sure she will, if you ask her… This the field?’

  ‘Yes. If we get up on that wall – get a better view… Rufus, why are you and she not – personal question, this, very rude I know, but – well, you’ve known her quite a long time, Guy said, so—’

  ‘Why don’t we get married?’ He clambered up, turned to put a hand down to help her but she was already there beside him. ‘Why don’t we name the day, you’re wondering?’

  ‘I’m sure there’s some good reason.’

  ‘Two, as it happens. One, she’s going out to the Cape this autumn, staying there about four months. It’s summer then, and her parents have been pressing her to come. Her mother’s not too fit, apparently.’ He was looking round at the field of hay. ‘Certainly looks big enough. When it’s cut, is the ground good and level?’

  ‘As level as most fields. We’ll be cutting it this week anyway, you’ll see for yourself.’

  ‘Weekend after next, that’ll be.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Papa did say… Why is it you can’t make this next one?’

  ‘My skipper’s arriving. Have to stay on the job, therefore. Speaking of which, the other reason for Diana and I to wait is that in two years’ time I’ll be getting my half-stripe – making me a lieutenant commander – and my pay’ll be a bit more worth having. Should have a command of my own too, by that time – if I don’t blot my copybook.’

  ‘Better not, had you.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘But I don’t think I’d wait.’ Her dark hair was blowing in the wind. ‘Once I was sure, I mean.’ She laughed, her eyes shining with the sun’s reflection in them. ‘After all, when one’s made one’s mind up?’

  ‘Only thing is – if the lucky man’s my young brother, Suzie, as I hope he may be—’

  ‘If… Long wait. I know… But another thought – which I’d forgotten for the moment – is that with a war coming it mightn’t be such a good idea anyway.’

  ‘I think you could look at that either way.’

  ‘Alastair says we’ll be at war within a year.’

  ‘He could be right, too… Anyway, Suzie – thinking of this as Diana’s landing field – she could make her approach from either there – northwest – or the reciprocal, from the southeast over those trees. We’ll have to put a wind-sock up, I suppose. Know what I mean?’ She’d nodded: she’d seen them, hadn’t until now known what they were called. He asked her, ‘What’s the prevailing wind here, in mid-summer?’

  ‘West or northwest, mostly. Anything up to hurricane force, usually with sheets of rain. Or hail…’ She laughed. ‘It’s anyone’s bet, tell her.’

  ‘She’ll find that very useful.’

  ‘On second thoughts though, better not say anything that might put her off. We have wonderful summers, hardly any wind—’

  ‘If you were to stand here with your hair blowing out like that, Suzie, we wouldn’t need to bother with a wind-sock.’

  ‘Like me to take root, would you?’

  ‘Wish I had my Brownie with me. Snap you as you are this minute – and with that background—’

  ‘Title it “Wind-sock”. Bound to win a prize then!’

  ‘I’d put it in a frame and give it to Guy for Christmas.’

  He took his eyes off her. ‘Diana would have a run of about a hundred and fifty yards. Be enough – I’d guess.’

  ‘Warn her not to fly low over the farmstead – cattle, etcetera. Well, I’ll show you – draw you a map. But look – she could put her machine in that byre, if it has to go under cover.’

  �
�If we get one of your midsummer hurricanes.’

  ‘Exactly. What date did you say she’s coming?’

  ‘Bringing Guy, the 30th. Back south next day. Then she’ll fly up again for the anniversary party at the end of August. The hoolie, that is.’

  ‘But we’d better have a small-scale hoolie on the 30th. Dress-rehearsal hoolie.’ She was climbing down. ‘Patricia’ll be here too, then – she comes about the middle of the month.’ Looking up at him: ‘You’ll like her.’

  ‘I’m sure I will.’ He jumped, landing beside her. ‘Hope Toby Dymock will too.’

  ‘Oh—’ starting back towards the house – ‘of course… Heavens, they’ll be waiting for us, won’t they.’ Over her shoulder: ‘Sorry you won’t be here next weekend.’

  ‘So am I. But my skipper would be extremely put out if I wasn’t there when he arrived.’

  ‘Well, just make sure you’re here every weekend after that. Promise?’

  ‘Probably not every one. Most, I hope. Anyway you’ll have Guy in less than a month, remember.’

  ‘But Toby’s going to be tied up after this next weekend, he says. Tests and trials – and crew arriving? Is that the truth, or just a let-out?’

  ‘Why would he want that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well – he might have some girl somewhere.’ A quick, searching glance. Then, getting no reaction: ‘Or just feel he’s seen enough of us.’

  Most unlikely. In any case it is the truth. Trumpeter’s due for her final acceptance trials in the last week of August, and between now and then they’ll certainly be busy. All kinds of tests and trials – basin dive this week, I think – and the last batch of crew arriving, which makes the first lieutenant in particular very busy.’

  ‘What’s a basin dive?’

  ‘The basin’s the dock Trumpeter and my submarine are lying in at the moment, and the dive’s for the dockyard people to satisfy themselves she’s watertight and check the ballast in her keel.’

  ‘I’d have thought you'd be the ones who’d want to satisfy yourselves it’s watertight!’

  ‘Well – yes. But the boat’s in the builders’ hands still, it’s their test. Primarily to get the ballast right. The big one – ours, you might say – is in the final acceptance trials. This dip in the basin – dips plural, actually – they do in slow time – very slow, so if anything goes wrong they can stop and get her up again.’

  ‘Is anything likely to go wrong?’

  ‘Extremely unlikely.’

  ‘Good.’ Walking long-strided beside him, through the stable-yard again. Glancing up: ‘Toby’s offered to show me round his submarine, some time. When the paint’s dry, he said.’

  ‘And that prospect pleases?’

  ‘Shouldn’t it?’

  ‘I’d wait till Guy’s here, if I were you. He’d love it. And then I could take you both into Glasgow for a meal.’

  * * *

  Nat Eason, Threat’s engineer officer, remarked approvingly on that Monday morning, ‘You fixed the bowcap balls-up double-quick, Number One. I got the word five minutes ago.’ Glancing at his watch. ‘Crack of bloody dawn that is, to this shower.’

  They’d met on the quayside of the fitting-out basin – in a bedlam of hammering and rivetting, and men’s voices raised to penetrate that constant background roar – close to the shore end of Threat’s gangplank. Or rather, Job No. 1793’s gangplank. It wasn’t the crack of dawn to the workforce: Eason had been referring to his bêtes noirs, the bowler hats.

  Chalk suggested, ‘Indicative of a guilty conscience over the way they’ve buggered-up Trumpeter’s, probably. Hear it from Hamilton, did you?’

  ‘No bloody fear.’ The engineer snorted. ‘No – Tom Fairley came by. He’s the bloke gets things done, round here.’

  Fairley was the yard’s Foreman Engineer. Chalk said, ‘It was Hamilton’s arm I twisted, anyway.’

  ‘Flipper, more likely.’ Eason laughed, giving himself a coughing fit, dropping his fag-end and squashing it with his toe, still coughing. Then, recovering: ‘They’re amending the drawings, Fairley said.’

  ‘But not the operating system with that neutral position in it, I imagine.’

  ‘No mention of that.’ The engineer admitted, ‘And I didn’t think to ask. But the skipper might try, when he gets here – new face, the bastards might show willing?’

  ‘It’d be wasted effort, I’m afraid. No, best thing we can do, Chief, is get used to it.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose… Ah – very civil…’ Accepting a new cigarette, from Chalk’s case. ‘You won’t be off to the Highlands next weekend, I dare say?’

  ‘No, I won’t. Might be as well if you stuck around too, Chief.’

  ‘I’m broke, any road.’ Eason flipped his lighter into action. ‘Costs a fair whack, this living ashore.’

  ‘I’m sure – with a wife to keep – and a child—’

  ‘One and a half. Bun in the oven, as they say.’

  ‘Well, congratulations!’

  ‘Hit or miss, I reckon. No skill in it… Listen, we got four ratings joining – right?’

  ‘Including your Leading Stoker. We’re going to be busier than we have been, Chief. I am, anyway – I want that desk clear, by Saturday. Some of the bumf will need your attention, incidentally.’

  ‘I got a special way with bumf.’ Expelling a long plume of smoke… ‘Long as it’s on thin paper, mind…’ He’d mimed his meaning: now he pointed with his head. ‘Here’s the Debs’ Delight paying us a visit.’

  Dymock: approaching round the end of the basin, from Trumpeter’s berth at that end. Eason muttered, ‘I’ll leave you the pleasure’, and started across the plank.

  ‘See you in the office later, Chief.’ Chalk waited, smoking his cigarette and gazing across the oily surface at Trumpeter. One more or less complete submarine, ready for her baptismal total immersion. It would be a year before Threat reached that stage. He glanced to his right: ‘Morning, Toby.’

  ‘Morning… Message to you from my skipper. Remember I mentioned people called Buchanan?’

  He nodded. ‘Barlows’ finance director.’

  ‘Correct. They’re having a cocktail party at their house at Helensburgh – on Wednesday – and he’s asked Jacko to bring you along. Don’t ask me why. But Jacko’s ordained that I should bring you – since I know the way, and so on. It’s for Wednesday at six-thirty, I might pick you up at your digs at six – all right?’

  ‘I wonder why he’d invite me – not having met, in fact not knowing me from a bar of soap?’

  ‘Well – he’s a Barlows’ director, he’d know who’s who in the yard. And after all, you’re acting skipper. They tend to hobnob mostly with COs.’

  ‘Although they’ve counted you in.’

  ‘As I said – mostly.’

  ‘Well – it’d be undiplomatic not to accept, I suppose.’

  ‘It would, really. Unless you’ve something else on?’

  ‘Would they expect a formal acceptance?’

  ‘God, no. Jacko’ll pass the word.’

  ‘I’ll take my own car, anyway. Sooner be independent – thanks all the same. Tell me how to get there?’

  ‘I’ll draw you a map.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘And by the way, Rufus – thanks for introducing me to the Cameron-Greens.’

  ‘This Buchanan thing’s not some kind of quid pro quo, by any chance?’

  ‘Not at all. I said – comes through Jacko.’

  ‘You’re doing your basin dive that day, aren’t you? Wednesday?’

  Dymock nodded. ‘But we’ll be up and dry again by midafternoon, latest. You coming to watch?’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘Trumpeter’s christening. You can be a godfather, if you like.’

  * * *

  The Buchanans’ house, set back off the road that led from Helensburgh to Crosskeys and Loch Lomond, was pretty much as he’d visualized it from Dymock’s description of it the other day as ‘a great stone pile’. Somewhat large
r than most, but otherwise typical of the Scottish suburban villa: grey stone, sash windows, slate roof, and a semicircle of in-and-out driveway. A carriage-house too, back there. Obviously serving as a garage now, but with an upper storey like a sail-loft. Chalk backed his little Austin in between a brand-new Flying Standard – a new job, there weren’t many on the roads yet – and a huge old shooting-brake, and amongst other cars between there and the door he spotted Dymock’s Riley.

  The one good thing about the Dymock-Suzie situation, of which Chalk was frequently reminding himself, was that after the coming weekend he wouldn’t be able to get up there much. And Guy would be moving in only three weeks from Friday. From then on, it could be left to him entirely.

  The Buchanan front door stood open, he saw as he went up the steps. A heavy door with pseudo-baronial carving: again, par for the course… A roar of voices from inside. He pulled the bell, heard it clang somewhere in the rear regions, and within seconds a uniformed maid appeared: as quick as a genie with a lamp, except that she was carrying a tray with glasses on it. Passing through the gloomy hall in any case, he guessed.

  ‘Good evenin’, sir. May I enquire your name?’

  ‘Chalk. Lieutenant Chalk, Royal Navy.’

  ‘Lieutenant Chalk – aye, they’re expecting ye. If ye’d step this way, sir…’

  Her pronunciation of his name reminded him of an Edinburgh street-children’s chant: Edinburgh rock, Banana an’ chalk… The way they said it, the words rhymed. He was in the doorway of a room on the right of the hall, and shaking his host’s hand. A rather soft hand – but a firm handshake – a lightly checked suit unquestionably from Savile Row, silk shirt made to measure probably in Jermyn Street… Chalk, having taken this superficial inventory in one glance, was conscious of being subjected to a rather more deliberate assessment by Buchanan. Then the probing light-brown eyes seemed to relax, creasing as he smiled… ‘So glad you could join us, Chalk. Sorry there wasn’t time to get an invitation to you directly. I’m Andrew Buchanan – as you’ll have realized. We should have met before, of course, but I’m not up here all that much—’